


Broken Crown

by RighteousNerd



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Philinda - Freeform, gh-325 side effects, like what a bummer, seriously unhappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RighteousNerd/pseuds/RighteousNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She holds his pieces in her hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd work. All typos and errors in grammer are my own.

In his dreams, he watches himself die. It's strange, even for him, this out-of-body experience, but there he is: on the helicarrier, with Loki, staff run right through him.

He can't stop it. It's already happened. It's history. This is just playback. He can't do anything more than watch himself bleed out. They're not going to get to him in time, they won't be able to save him. He knew it then and he knows it now. He gave everything on the chance that the real heroes would step up and save the day. It's all he has ever believed in. 

It's when the blood pools at his feet that he sees the symbols.

*

The first time he gives in it's in a basement storage room. He defaces the wall, carving symbols until his fingers blister and bleed, and comes back to himself covered in plaster dust. 

So, that's it then, Phil thinks. It's started. That unnamed urge that's been pulling and pushing at him has finally taken shape.

He goes to Melinda, because what else would he do? Phil's not stupid. It's only ever going to get worse. Even so, the dread that strikes into him as he waits at her door feels like it might bring him to his knees. The door creaks open before he can collapse under the weight of it.

"Phil?"

He should have showered or at least changed clothes, because he's covered in sweat and dust, his feet are still bare, and he's definitely shivering. He should have collected himself instead of running straight here, because it's the middle of the night, and he's pretty sure with one look at him she went from zero to defend-the-base-at-all-costs in no time flat. 

He regrets doing it like this, regrets the burden he's about to bring down on her, in all actuality, he regrets a lot of things when it comes to her. He always thought they had more time. 

He takes her hand in his, looks her in the eye and says simply, "it's started."

She lets him lead her to the basement room and the wall filled with his markings. He can't look at them. If it weren't for her hand wrapped around his, he would probably run as fast and as far away from this place as he could. He's grateful and so very relieved that she seems just as disinclined to let go as he is.

He needs her. Pathetically and beyond hope, he needs her.

Melinda is silent as she inspects his handy work. Her silences normally speak to him; they move, there's cadence. He can tell what she is thinking by the set of her shoulders and would know how she feels by the way she breathes. He would know Melinda in only the quiet and could find her darkness.

This silence is different. Something within her has stopped and gone still, and he doesn't know what it means.

"We should clean this up." She says, finally, fracturing that stillness so completely that it takes her turning and looking back up at him before he understands. She needs him too.

"I'm not asking you to do that." 

"No, you're asking me to fix the problem."

"Melinda-" He barely gets out, before she's stepping closer, invading his space.

"No." She says firmly, eyes locked onto his. "This is not the beginning of the end. This doesn't get to claim you."

"You would rather cover it up? Keep it a secret? Delay the inevitable?" She's so close that he can smell her over the plaster coating his clothes. He wishes he could drop his head to her shoulder, that he could hold them together for as long she would have him, but he can't. It not safe, for either of them.

"Melinda, you know just as well as I do what's going to happen." He insists, the words rising like bile.

Hypergraphia. Aphasia. Catatonia. Psychosis. He thinks through the list numbly. These are what await him. This is his future, a future she seems hell bent on sharing.

"How can I work with this?" He continues, pointing defiantly at the wall. "I can't be Director and be this."

How can he fight on the side of right when everything inside of him has gone wrong?

"You don't have a choice. We need you. We will fix this, but not like that." She says, and even he can see the futility in continuing to argue. "I'm not going to cross you off."

It scares him, how far she would be willing to go for him, how long she would try to hold him together. He knows what it's like to mourn someone you love while they're still with you, and he can't stand the idea of doing that to her.

*

In his dreams, he can't reach her. Bahrain is burning around them, and as desperately as he tries, he can't get to her. Sometimes she's too far away, sometimes he's stuck or can't move, but always he calls out to her. It's those pleas that finally rouse Melinda May.

It's when she turns towards him that he sees the symbols burning her skin to ash. 

*

They have a system now, and it helps. They've worked on breathing, meditation, even one disastrous attempt at yoga. They've done everything Melinda can think of to shore up his control, and tried everything she can do to keep him upright and moving between episodes. He runs SHIELD and she runs him. 

It's getting worse, they both know it but neither can acknowledge it. There's no way to give voice to the fear that they're losing, that nothing they've tried can stop what's coming. It's no longer an urge simply to be given into but something he actively has to fight. The compulsion lingers even after and the need of it settles over him like a second skin. It's all he can think about, and the longer he goes without the harder it gets. 

Melinda is with him every time. 

The gun is a sour point between them. She declines. He insists. It gets heated and ugly, fast. It makes him sick to ask more of her, to make this demand. What right does he have, he wonders. She has already given him too much. On this alone he can remain resolute. For her sake and his. Phil's not so far gone that he doesn't know that.

"Fury's orders still stand." He reminds her, again and again. As often as possible. 

It's always the same argument. "Fury isn't here." 

"You were willing to do it before." He says, finally breaking their unspoken rule. 

There's a reason they don't talk about it, and his words sit heavily between them for so long that he starts to worry he's pushed a boundary better left alone.

"You're still angry with me." It's not a question, but a statement. Part of him is surprised that she could ever think that, but he shouldn't be. He knows her, and it's not like he ever bothered to explain.

"I'm not. I'm not angry." She's seems to accept his answer, and Phil's almost ready to let her, but they've put this conversation off for too long. He can't keep letting her down. "I was. Angry, I mean. I don't think I've ever been so mad."

Melinda's shoulders go stiff and he can see the tension that fills her. She's expecting punishment. Maybe they both are, and maybe this time honesty really will pave the way. After all, one ticking time bomb between them is enough.

"I was so mad. I trusted you, needed you, and you went behind my back." He continues, and where his breath feels heavy in his chest, hers seems to have stopped all together. She's bracing so Phil knows he has her attention. "I forgive you."

The breath she was holding releases in a small puff. She's no longer looking at him, and he so desperately needs her to if he's going to keep going. And he really needs to keep going, because this might be the last chance he has.

"I'm not finished." Her eyes dart back to his. "I'm sorry. Melinda, I'm so sorry. I expected your trust but I didn't trust you back. I was mean and I hurt you, and I'm sorry."

They're both quiet. Phil wishes he had something in his hands, something to clutch tightly to help keep him from reaching for her. 

"I'm scared." He tells her instead, because now's the time to lay it all out. "I can't stand the idea of hurting you and I'm scared that you would let me."

"I've got your back." She says quickly. For Melinda, that's everything; it's trust, loyalty, sacrifice, and even love. Especially love.

"But I don't want you too." Phil hates the way her eyes drop from his, but he still doesn't let it stop him. "I don't want to be saved if it's at your expense." 

"How can you ask me to do this? If you don't want to hurt me, don't ask me to do this." She says, her voice turning small and soft. It's as close to a plea as he's ever heard from her. 

"I have too. Because you mean a lot to me too." He almost chokes on the words, had always imagined saying them under different circumstances but now it's too much. They're both too scared and too raw, and there should be more but he can't. Not now, when they're too close to the end of everything. He hates himself in this moment, hates the symbols and their unknown meanings. He hates his own weakness and the fear that would drive him to need this from her. Not for the first time, he wonders if this will claim them both. 

Phil clears his throat, trying to pull the "Director" into his voice. "Here's the deal: you want to protect me? Okay, but you have to protect yourself first. You have to protect the team."

She doesn't agree, merely nods that she understands. It's all he could ever really hope for. His next episode, there's a gun on the desk. Neither of them comment.

*

In his dreams, he remembers his father’s hands. He remembers his father’s hands more often than he can remember his face. Strong hands, that, to a child, had seemed to shape the world. 

When he sees the world now, all he sees are the symbols. They're on every surface and every wall, but in his dreams, it's no longer his hands that hold the knife. He wishes he could see his fathers face instead.

*

She no longer takes pictures of his face during. Not since the beginning, and those first forays into compulsive need. He thinks it was an accident, the one time she captured his profile while he carved. He had cried, angry and desperate that night, and later had barely gotten a glance at the photo before her slender fingers had snatched it away. Phil doesn't know what happened to it, it's not with the others. His hands, steadfast and precise in their task, certainly grace the photos more than once. The knife is documented. Each circle, every line, all photographed with detachment. But his face is now always carefully avoided.

What does Melinda see when he's at the wall? Does she still know him? Would he know himself? 

Phil has to keep his hands perpetually clenched tight to keep the tremors at bay now. Sometimes his entire body is wracked with need, and he aches from holding himself back. 

He sees the symbols everywhere. Awake and asleep, he can't escape them. They've been driven deep into the heart of him, digging and rooting him out. Soon there will be nothing left. It's a nightmare to end all nightmares and he's so tired of fighting. He wishes he could keep trying. Try harder, fight harder, be stronger, but god help him, it feels so good to give in. 

The world moves around him without focus, all at once and then not at all. His life is made only of moments between craving and carving. He doesn't know what's happening with SHIELD, and he's distantly bothered by that. It was his life once, and Phil thinks he should be able to muster more concern for the organizations well being, but when he tries he continues to come up empty. He doesn't see his team, only her. It's better this way. He doesn't want them to see him like this; out of time and out of place, unconnected to anything but circles and lines, knife and plaster, and Melinda. 

She holds his pieces in her hands. 

"There's so much I never told you." He's holding himself back, and it's more an act of self-destruction than self-preservation. The wall is in sight and it’s already been too long that his body trembles with urgency. He's at the precipice, deliriously ready to tumble over, but still he tries to hold himself steady at the top. "I should have told you. So many times. I have to tell you, Melinda."

"I know, Phil. I know." She's there, holding him up when he would sooner fall. "You told me."

"Please." He sobs over and over into her hair, clutching back at her with the grip of a dying man. He doesn't know if he's hurting her, doesn't know if he has, desperately hopes he never will. "I don't want to. Please. Not again." 

She pries his hand open and presses the knife into his palm.

"You have to." She tells him, and he hears her through the haze. "We are so close. One more time, Phil. One more."

Melinda helps him to the wall, he wouldn't make it without her. He held out too long, he's shaking so hard that he can barely stand, can barely breathe, but at least he has that. It's a victory of defiance. The last victory he can ever hope to have. 

And then there's no thought of victory at all. He's there, at the wall, knife in hand, and the world is still and slow. There is only this. He could plot every scrap of existence with the scrape of the blade, could carve his entire life in circles and lines, and he does because it's finally quiet and clear. He loses himself in the work.

There's no peace in it, relief yes, but never peace. Relief seeps into him, as if a long held fever has finally broken. Everything hurts less, the pressure eases, and he can think again. It's a mercy and he follows it, chasing absolution, grasping at the unknown. It lasts as long as the wall does, and then it all comes crashing back against him. 

He's spinning again, lost until she finds him. Melinda is there now, he knows she never left him, but the distance is gone and she's there. Her arms wrap around him, keeping him with her, and anchoring him to her world.

"Stay with me." She whispers, and it's a struggle to focus on her voice. "Just for awhile longer. Stay with me."

She's going to save him, she tells him again and again. He believes her, he just doesn't remember asking her too.

**Author's Note:**

> Debating whether to write a second part from Melinda May's POV. What do you all think?


End file.
